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ROSE -ASHES 

AND 
OTHER POEMS 



CARRIE STEVENS WALTER 

(Mtfnorial Edition) 



A. C. EATON & CO. 

i90r 



I WO O'joies Received 

OCT 83 <90/ 

Cnnyrierht Entry 

CLASS<4 AAC, No. 

COHY a. 






Copyright, igoj, by 
MARY WALTER 



Contents. 



Portrait Frontispiece 

ROSE-ASHES 

IN THE SUNSHINE :- Page 

California 13 

Indecision . . . . . . . • 13 

Mendocino 17 

Maternity 19 

Through Lake County . . . ... . 21 

Scattering the Mists 24 

SantaClara Valley (May, 1889) .... 26 

A Thought of Farewell 29 

On Monte Piedra 31 

At Monterey 33 

The Fate of Genius . . . * . . . 34 

At Lakeport 36 

To Adolph Sutro 38 

Sunset at Santa Barbara 39 



vi Contents 

IN THE SHADOW :- 

Page 

Un Sueiio de la Noche 43 

As I Rock My Baby 47 

Unrest 49 

At Last 52 

In the Desert 54 

Night at New Almaden 56 

A Night Ride 58 

Why? 60 

On the Border- Land of Tears ..... 62 

At the Dawning 63 

Fragments (from An Idyl of Santa Barbara) * 65 



TEMPEST-TOSSED :— 

A Dedication . 68 

Spanish Song 69 

The Cry of the Spirit . . . . . . 71 

A Woman's Response ...... 73 

After All 75 

Nepenthe • . . . 78 

Ojald! 80 

And Yet 81 

In Bondage 82 

Suspense ........ 84 

Pursued 85 

Nirvana 86 



Contents vu 

OTHER POEMS 

Page 

At Santa Cruz 91 

Storm-Born 93 

Coming Home .....••"-' 

Willing to Go Forward 99 

The Legend of Amapola '02 

Alum Rock Canyon '04 

In Memory of Mrs. E. O. Smith . . . .106 

To Ina Coolbrith 109 

At the Cross-road HO 

Santa Cruz, December 23. 1690. . . .112 

Mt. Hamilton ''^ 

Reincarnation ' '^ 

Monte Piedra >20 

Conflict 122 

May 2. 1903 124 

Some Day '26 

Love 128 

Pip and Ingle |29 

What Is It to Be Akin 130 

Fallibility 133 

Fragment 135 

Memorial Tributes to Carrie Stevens 

Walter 139 



ROSE -ASHES 



Whirled from the altar q/ Life^—from its innermost secret 

recesses,— 
Warm with the memory of fires that have burned themselves 

low at its shrine; 
Fragrant with incense of days that were pure as an angel's 

caresses;— 
Gathered in verse-urns at last, are thesi scattered rose-ashes 

of mine. 



To the memory of my father, 

3( OB lalj ttirr^tt ^tfu^wB. 

from whom^ with my life-breath, I drew the instincts 
of song; to whom I owe what possibilities of its expres- 
sion may be mine; who was to me the embodiment of all 
that is true and chivalrous in manhood, and who is to 
me as one who has but gone before to prepare a place for 
me, [dedicate this first published collection of my verses. 

CARRIE STEVENS IVALTER. 
San Jose, Cal., August, iSqo. 



In the Sunshine 



California 

The old Pacific harshly calls to Mendocino's 

shore, 
But sighs at Santa Barbara's feet his love-song 

o'er and o'er; 
The giant redwoods greeting send to orange, 

fig and lime, 
And Siskiyou holds out a cup for wine of 

Anaheim. 

Proud Shasta's snow-crowned head looks out 
to St. Helena's base, 

Where Napa's vine-wrought beauty smiles 
in fair Sonoma's face ; 

Mount Hamilton reads reverently the mys- 
teries of the skies. 

Where Santa Clara's valley-sweep in fruited 
richness lies. 



14 Rose- Ashes 

Armed Alcatraz stands sentinel beside the 
Golden Gate, 

Beyond whose portals Farallones, like threat- 
ening shadows, wait; 

The commerce of the world steals by, unchal- 
lenged, day by day. 

But Tamalpais counts every ship in San Fran- 
cisco Bay. 

Across the San Joaquin's broad reach of vines 

and waving wheat. 
The old Sierras pour their gold to San Diego's 

feet ; 
And northern pine and southern palm woo 

sea-winds from the west, 
While over all a spirit broods of romance and 

unrest. 

The rose entwines the orange-tree, the sea- 
winds rock the pines, 

And wheat-sheaves lift their golden heads 
amid the grapes' green vines : 

The latest glow of sunset still enfolds it ever- 
more, 

While Strength and Beauty stand hand- 
clasped, upon this Western shore. 



Indecision 15 



Indecision 

"My will is bondsman to the dark, 
I sit within a helmless bark." 

—Tennyson. 

I think, to every human soul, 

Who truly feels life's fullest need. 
There comes a time, along the years, 

When Heaven's designs are hard to read; 
A veil seems drawn before the day, 

A light gone out where late one shone, 
The footsteps falter by the way — 

With voiceless speech the heart makes 

moan : 
''My will is bondsman to the dark, 
I sit within a helmless bark!" 

Through years, perhaps, with footstep firm, 
We fearless walk the varied way ; 

Life's burdens seem not hard to bear 
While glad around us shines the day; 



16 Rose- Ashes 

But suddenly our joyous song 

Is strangely still, we know not why, 
A weakness, where but late was strength, 
Creeps 'round the heart, we faintly cry : 
*'My will is bondsman to the dark, 
I sit within a helmless bark !" 

Yet, soon or late, there comes, I think, 

To all who feel life's highest aim. 
Reaction from this chill despair, 

Our ghosts return to whence they came ; 
We rise, unconquered, from the gloom. 

Our brows seem fanned by heavenly wings ; 
Hand-clasped with Hope we breast life's 
waves, 
The while the heart triumphant sings : 
"My will is master of the dark, 
And angel hands will guide my bark!" 



Mendocino 1 7 



Mendocino 

Like a host of giant warriors, 
Mendocino's mountains stand, — 

Warrior-giants grim and solemn, 
Face to face and hand to hand. 

Mail of madrone, spears of redwood, 
Cloud and sunshine helnieted, 

Breastplate of the fir and oak-tree, 
Manzanita-garmented. 

Sunlight, dim with faint blue shadows, 
Wraps them with a soft caress, 

Leaving not on spear or breastplate 
One harsh curve of ruggedness. 

Resinous odors, breath of hop-fields. 
Fragrance of the sweet wild rose, 

Somnorific, steal upon them, 
Lull them to a soft repose. 



18 Rose- Ashes 

Mendocino's grand, gray mountains, 
Warrior-giants grim and hoar. 

Hushed into eternal silence 
By some stern edict of yore. 



Maternity 19 



Maternity 

(To Roy.) 

I hold two dainty little feet 

Clasped in my warm and loving hand, 
So soft and pink, they sure must be 

Two rose-leaves blown from fairy-land. 

I hold a tiny, helpless form. 

Clasped closely to my happy heart, 

My baby ! mine by right divine, 
The right of pain — a mother's part. 

O beauteous life, so fair and new, 
That yesterday was blent with mine ! 

O wondrous soul, so lately sprung 
A sparklet from the Source Divine! 

God's precious gifts, you come to me 

Embodied in this helpless form ; 
My mother-heart accepts the trust 

As flowers, the sunshine soft and warm. 



20 Rose-Ashes 

My brow seems decked by coronet, 

The fairest earth has ever seen, 
The diadem of Motherhood, 

And God's own hand has crowned me queen 

What realms are opened to my sight! 

I tread the regions of the blest ; 
And all because this little form 

Lies fair and helpless on my breast ; 

A tiny bud, whose flower complete 
May bloom to bless my waning years. 

Ah, Motherhood, you hold a bliss 

That best may be expressed in tears. 

July, 1876 



Through Lake County 21 



Through Lake County 

A lake, which seems a silver mirror, swung 
Up near the clear blue sky. 

Around whose loveliness the guardian hills 
In circling beauty lie. 

Mountains, that hide within their silent breasts 

Ashes of fires long spent, 
Whose torches lighted, through the night of 
Time, 

Chaos' black firmament. 

Cedars and pines, which strike their piercing 
roots 
In cold volcanoes' hearts, 
That throbbed their lives out in some dead 
world grief. 
As human pain departs. 



22 Rose-Ashes 

Valleys, whose curves are like the carved 
designs 

The hand of sculptor makes, 
Inheritors of all the riches left 

By long departed lakes. 

Unnumbered springs and rills, which from the 
earth 
In sunshine leap and play, 
And take, down mountain-side and valley- 
sweep, 
Their graceful, sinuous way. 

This lake, that lonely watched through untold 
years 

Orion his pathway trace, 
Now takes in Beauty's Western Wonderland, 

By right, an honored place. 

Above the tombs of countless ages dead, 
— Nature's mute battle-fields, — 

Beauty and Strength have wrought their mys- 
teries, 
Order his sceptre wields. 



Though Lake County 23 

The burned-out passion of a dead world's pain, 
— This granite dust of time, — 

Is re-incarnate in the lovely form 
Of flower and tree and vine. 

The Spirit of the Past, that wrought its work 

And seemed to pass away, 
Through loam and vine and grape is born 
again, 

The rich wine of to-day. 

The old-world trees, whose lavishness of leaf 
Formed this rich valley-soil, 

Yielded their lives in travail to the fruits 
That now reward our toil. 

Thus ceaselessly the mystic wheel of Life 

Makes its eternal round ; 
No link is lost, no hurry mars its sweep, — 

One perfect whole is found. 



24 Rose- Ashes 



Scattering the Mists 

A reuiiniscence of the Grand Encampment of the G. A. R.. 
held in San Francisco, Augrust, 1880. 

Stealing over crinkled sand-dunes, creeps the 

sea-fog on the town, 
Silent as a spirit legion, through the shadows 

sweeping down. 

Through the streets aflame with banners, all 

a-throb with human life. 
Cowers the sea-fog sore affrighted — all the 

place with tumult rife. 

Measured tread of marching thousands, blaze 

of flainbeau, blare of guns, 
Lingering shouts of, ''Sherman !" "Logan !" 

"Honor to our nation's sons!" 

All the air a-thrill with music, roses strewn 

along the ways, 
This the tribute California, to each honored 

hero, pays. 



Scattering the Mists 25 

Backward over crinkled sand-dunes, as 

affrighted spectres flee, 
Routed, beaten, creeps the sea-fog, sinks into 

the sheltering sea. 



26 Ross- Ashes 



Santa Clara Valley 

May, 18S9. 

Like some fair island, ocean-girt and calm, 
Whose soft enchantment of dim distances, 
Beneath the ardent glory of the Sun, 
Bewilders with its ever-changing grace — 
This wondrous valley lies. 

Its clasping waves. 
The tawny billows of the hills that rise 
Brown-streaked with curving rows of ripening 

hay ; 
These, crossed and cut by many a green ravine 
— Thick-wooded, dank, — that with long fingers 

strives 
To envious stop — yet, witless, only aids 
The upward reaching of the hills to meet 
The soft, cool bosom of the clouds, which 

stoop 
To their caressing, as fond mothers do. 



Santa Clara Valley 27 

Above the eastern range, the morning sun 
Flaunts the first banners of the dawn ; and here 
Mount Hamilton clasps hands with Mission 

Ridge ; 
Then, like a king, he marshals toward the 

south 
A phalanx of the lesser hills. 

These go 
And dim and dimmer grow, 'till far beyond 
Where Almaden darts sharply out to bar 
Their way, they stop at last, a hovering band, 
And, like tired children, cuddle down to rest 
In the warm sands of sheltered Monterey. 

Along the western boundary, holding back 
The hoarse Pacific, that unceasing frets 
And foams against their sturdy barrier, 
The hills of Santa Cruz lift stately heads ; 
Their sides green-flecked with laurel and 

madrone. 
Their summits, — dark against the sunset sky. 
Close serried with the giant redwood trees. 
Which stand like sentinels upon the heights, 
— The fortressed heights that guard this 

farthest West. 



28 Rose-Ashes 

From Monterey to San Francisco Bay, 
No break is found along this western wall 
Through which reluctant sunshine could steal 

back, 
Despite the formal farewell of the Day, 
For just one little stolen, hurried kiss, 
One latest, last farewell — (as lovers do) — 
To Santa Clara Valley, looking out 
With shaded eyes that fain would lure it back. 

These are the sheltering walls that clasp 

within 
Their bounding lines a world within itself; 
An Orient of fairest fruits and flowers ; 
An Occident of beauty fresh and new. 
Where polar snow and tropic sun seem blent 
In flower and fruit of bending orchard trees. 

This — Santa Clara Valley, lying fair 
Within the clasping boundary of her hills! 



A Thought of Farewell 29 



A Thought of Farewell 

I think, my friend, the Hindoo version wrong, 
Which claims Nirvana is forgetfulness, — 

That all experience of the ages gone 

Leaves not one memory to curse or bless. 

I love to call it by another name. 

Nirvana — "All-remembering" — ''All-divine," 
And think that in a grander, larger life, 

A clearer, broader memory will be mine. 

That all I've been, along the countless years 
Since first from Chaos' fount my being 
sprang,— 

That all I've felt of joy or wept of tears, 

Or known of love or disappoifitment's pang, 

May stand to me in that clear, larger life, 
For some grand purpose in the all-wise plan, 

With God's good reason for the life intense 
That fierce through all my forms of being 
ran. 



30 Rose-Ashes 

Then, in that time, I know that not the least 
Of memory's buds that into flower expand, 

Will be your friendship and your aid to me 
Through all the years, since first a kindly 
hand, — 

A helping hand, that was a guide and shield, 
You reached to me — a searcher for the 

light,-- 
An humble wayside gleaner in the field 
Wherein you labored with man's glorious 

■might. 

Then every cheering tone, — your words of 
praise. 

And every kindly grasping of the hand, 
Will shine as stars in memory's firmament, 

That clasps the glory of Nirvana's land. 



On Monte Piedra 



On Monte Piedra 

(A Mountlet in Lake County.) 

These stoic rocks, profoundly still, 
What secrets could they not disclose ! 

Ebbing of seas, and rise of hill, 

Formation's mighty travail-throes. 

Tell me, O rocks, what underlies 
Old St. Helena's massive base? 

What fount of Nature's mysteries 
Hides back of Cobb's majestic face? 

What master spirit wrought the plan 
Of Loconomi's graceful curves? 

And trod it first, some god-like man. 
With giant form and iron nerves. 

Who grasped with powerful hand the crude, 
Fierce chaos of a rounding world. 

And warring atoms, strong and rude. 
Into harmonious being hurled? 



32 Rose- Ashes 

Tell me the thought that wrought the smile 
Of pine and cedar on these hills; 

What merriment knew earth the while, 
That brought such laugh of rippling rills? 

What thought divine incarnates Man, 
Who walks his little round to death? 

Teach me the wisdom of the plan 

That mixed these winds with his hot breath. 

And ere he broke the calm above 
The slumbers of the countless years, 

What knew ye of the pangs of love, 
Or smiles of joy, or passion's tears? 

Tell me what prophecies you draw 
Of future from the past you've seen ; 

And judge, by God's unchanging law. 
What is to be from what has been. 



At Monterey 33 



At Monterey 

Along the beach beyond the dunes, 
I wandered one fair summer day, 

And heard the waves' low-whispered runes 
Come up the Bay of Monterey. 

The long gray reach of sanded shore, 

The glinting of the sunlit bay. 
The breakers murmuring evermore 

Their low sweet tales of Monterey, — 

All these became a part of me. 

And mine the rapture of the day — 

The day I watched the summer sea 
Creep in and capture Monterey. 

When life's last gates swing out for me. 

And stands revealed Heaven's first sweet 
day, 

I wonder, will its radiance be 
Fairer than this, at Monterey? 



34 Rose- Ashes 



The Fate of Genius 

To Margaret Mather. 

To consecrate your life to one high aim ; 

To merge your hopes, desires, ambitions, loves, 

In one strong purpose — loyalty to Art ; 

To climb to heights where few have dared to 

tread, 
Alone, uncomprehendcd by the crowd 
That toil, and fret, and struggle far below ; 
Self-dedicated, to forego the fate 
Of lowlier women, with the joys and hopes. 
The loves and cares that round their little 

worlds : 
This is the fate of Genius — this is yours, 
O, peerless Woman, in whose regal soul 
All grand emotions find their exponent. 
For you are of the rare and royal few, 
Whose springs of life, by Heaven's divine 

decree. 



The Fate of Genius 35 

Have source in some far, snow-born fountain- 
head, 
And run forever in deep gorges, cut 
Outside the placid channel wherein flows 
The stream of commoner Humanity. 



36 Rose- Ashes 



At Lakeport 

The circling hills that guard Clear Lake, like 

lazy giants lie 
Beneath the ardent sunshine, with their faces 

to the sky; 
Konockti sees across her waves Night's elfin 

shadows play. 
And loves to catch and fling to her the first red 

lights of Day. 

Back from the lake the pretty town goes danc- 
ing to the hills, 

That greet her with a gift of flowers and sere- 
nade of rills; 

The wine of life is in the air that wafts the 
fragrance down 

From resinous pines and odorous flowers to 
lake and shore and town. 

The fairest land beneath the sun, within whose 
border lies 



At Lakeport 37 

The glory of an emerald earth o'erhung by- 
sapphire skies ; 

And where, like threads of finest gold, the yel- 
low sun-rays fall, — 

Where Beauty makes her dwelling-place, and 
Heaven is over all. 



38 Rose- Ashes 



To Adolph Sutro 

Where the radiant land of sunset opens wide 

its western door, 
Where Pacific's restless breakers reach their 

arms out evermore, 
There is wrought a wondrous poem on the 

tablets of the rocks, — 
Wrought with pen of blast and pick-axe, as 

with throes of earthquake shocks. 

Truest instincts of the poet matchless lines of 

beauty trace, 
Storied places yield their tribute to enhance 

the mystic grace ; 
Through the long-advancing ages, gleam of 

days or gloom of nights, 
California's sons will thank you for your poem, 

— ''Sutro Heights." 



Sunset at Santa Barbara 39 



Sunset at Santa Barbara 

The mountains stand, 
Clearly defined, against the blood-red sky ; 
The waves, retreating from the rocky strand, 
Into the mist and gloom go hand in hand 

To sob and die. 

The night comes on, — 
As day retires with crimson banner furled, — 
One bright star sits in beauty all alone 
Upon her pensive brow, as on a throne, 

Queen of the world. 

In such a light, 
So filled with glory, let me ever lie ; 
With mountains, sunset, and the hush of 

night, — 
The waves retreating till they seem to smite 
The blood-red sky. 



In the Shadow 



Un Sueno de la Noche 43 



Un Sueno de la Noche 

(From "An Idyl of Santa Barbara. ') 

You decked my breast with violets last night, 
— Their haunting sweetness thrills my pulses 

yet,— 

You clasped my eager hands with warm caress, 
And kissed the sadness from my eyelids wet. 

My soul is sad at memory of your touch ; 

Your flowers' rich fragrance smites my heart 
with pain ; 
The look of pitying kindness in your eyes 

Will never come to gladden me again. 

For all the sweetness of that haunting scene, — 
Your thrilling touch, — your violets' purple 
gleam, — 
The glance of kindness from your speaking 
eyes, — 
Were but the offspring of a strange, sweet 
dream. 



44 Rose-Ashes 

I wake to know your your hand can ne'er clasp 
mine 
Thro' all the years — this side of Hope and 
Heaven ; 
To know that not one kindly glance of yours 
Shall ever to my longing eyes be given. 

I wake to take my burden up again, — 

Forgot for one sweet hour of dreaming 
night, — 

My weary burden of the heart and brain, 
And do my duty with my woman's might. 

I would not look upon your face again, 
— Your strong, proud face that is a god's, to 
me, — 

I would not hear the music of your voice, 
I would not think of you, nor hear, nor see 

One spoken, written word that could recall 
Your memory ; for only thus to me 

Can come a strength to do my daily work. 
For which my spirit must be brave and free. 



Un Sueno de la Noche 45 

You came into my life for one brief hour, 
Strong, noble, grand as any god could be, 

And all the currents of my being's tide. 

And life itself, henceforth were changed for 
me. 



You came — and passed. Now nevermore to me 
Can come the clasping of your firm true 
hand, — 

May shine the tender glory of your eyes — 
No more to me, this side the Heavenly Land. 

I pray for strength, — I would be firm and brave 
To put your very memory away ; 

I pray for strength, and it is granted me 
To meet the burdens of the toilful day. 

But in the dreaming mystery of Night 

Such visions come, sometimes, of bliss and 
pain, 

That, with the dawning of another day, 

The hard-won battle must be fought again. 



46 Rose- Ashes 

And yet — until we both shall pass the bridge 
That spans the mystic gulf from shore to 
shore, 

There must remain between my soul and yours 
The bridgeless sea of Silence — evermore. 



As I Rock My Baby 47 



As I Rock My Baby 

Oh, little golden head that lies 

So fair upon the mother breast ! 
Oh, dewy mouth, as roses sweet, 

So oft to mine in kisses pressed ! 

Oh, little hands that press my cheek 
With dear caress of baby touch ! 

Oh, blue-gray eyes that seek my own 

With questioning glance that asks so much 

Dear, restless feet that come and go 
In-doors and out the whole day long, 

To music of the lisping voice 

Far sweeter to my ears than song! 

I trembling glance adown the years, 
Strung mist-like on the thread of fate. 

That bring my winsome baby girl. 
Her womanhood's most fair estate. 



48 Rose-Ashes 

And dread the time my sheltering arms 
Can shield her precious form no more, 

When she has watched, with shaded eyes, 
My boat glide to the Farther Shore. 

I wonder — will the proud young head 
Bend some day to a chastening rod, 

The while my folded hands, perhaps, 
Lie 'neath the violet-tufted sod? 

I wonder — will the bright young eyes 
Grow dim and heavy with the weight 

Of tears they are too proud to shed. 
For life's hopes wrecked and desolate? 

Oh, little hands, take up your work, 
Whate'er Hope grants or Life denies ; 

Look bravely in the face of Fate, 

And shrink not, droop not, bright young 
eyes. 

And, may-be, from the Farther Shore, 
A mother's love can reach to bless, — 

Can guide and shield the wayworn feet 
With more than olden tenderness. 

January, 1885. 



Unrest 49 



Unrest 

The faint sea-breezes lift the silken hangings 

With soft and sad unrest ; 
The weary song-bird fain would still the music 

That trembles in his breast. 

I sit alone, environed by the shadows 

That steal into the room, 
And, bolder grown, with pity for my sadness, 

Wrap me in tender gloom. 

The pale cream roses in their emerald couches, 
The sweet-breathed heliotrope, 

The star-eyed jessamine, whose radiant white- 
ness 
Seems emblem best, of hope ; 

The bending sprays of lily-of-the-valley, 
With bells like drops of snow, 

The purple violets, with dewy lustre 
So like to eyes I know ; 



50 Rose- Ashes 

The large magnolia, empress of the blossoms, 
Whose fragrance rare and sweet, 

Is as the essence of all Southern glory 
Born of magnetic heat, — 



All smite me with their perfume-laden kisses. 
As drops of fragrant rain, 

That stir within my soul a restless cadence 
Half passion, and all pain. 



Oh, weary ways, that lie along life's journey. 
Lone wastes of space and time, 

That stretch between me and peace that calls 
me 
As some far distant chime ! 



I strive in vain to win a blest nepenthe, 

Or soothing cenomel ; 
Still swell along the years life's solemn 
changes, 

Sad as a tolling bell. 



Unrest 51 

Oh, strong, pure voices from that blessed 
future, 
From which doth emanate 
Wisdom and peace, — teach me life's hardest 
lesson 
— To work, and hope, and wait. 



52 Rose-Ashes 



At Last 

Along the toiling ways of life, 

My footsteps come and go ; 
How sad to me the dust and heat, 

Your heart may never know, 
— Dear friend, — 

The while I come and go. 

Yet heaviest task would seem but light, 
Nor long the weariest ways. 

If I could know I'd win at last, 
The guerdon of your praise, 

— Beloved, — 
After long toiling days. 

And I could climb the rockiest heights. 

Or tread the burning sand, 
If I could meet, when all was done, 

The clasping of your hand, 

Your true and loving hand. 



At Last 53 

In darkest hours, my faith could see 

The sunshine smiling through, 
Could I but know I'd come, at last, 

To light and love and you, 
— Dear heart, — 

When weary toils are through. 



54 Rose- Ashes 



In the Desert 

This desert-drouth in which my soul 
Plods on beneath a burning sky, 

Has withered all my fairest flowers, 
The very fount of song is dry. 

A ceaseless struggle to maintain 

With slender hands, by force of will, 

A painful hold on life's rough rocks, 
Keeps all my song-birds sadly still. 

I think God made a woman's hands 
To stroke the babe upon her breast, — 

To smooth the grief from pain-knit brows, 
And strew the lotus-flowers of rest. 

But cruel thorns too often tear 
The feet of women who must tread 

Life's rugged thoroughfares, to win 
Their own or helpless children's bread. 



In the Desert 55 

No Boaz rules the field of Toil 

To drop with generous hand some grains, 
For heart-faint Ruth, who gleans across 

The sharpness of its stubble-plains. 

She can but walk with purpose firm 
And heart each hour upraised to God ; 

The while she prays her sinking feet 
May find the path her Lord has trod. 



56 Rose- Ashes 



Night at New Almaden 

Soft the trickling waters slip 

Through the shadows of the night, 

Under spectral trees that dip 

Low their phantom boughs, gray-white. 

Up the shadowy mountain side 
Climb dim redwoods to the skies, 

Gazing out on Night's star-tide 
In a reverent surprise. 

Giant ghosts of chimneys rise 
Dim from summits of the steep, 

'Neath which fiery furnace eyes 
Know no night of rest or sleep. 

Brawny men their toil-watch keep, 

Where the drill and pick-axe chime, — 

In Earth's strongholds dark and deep 
Break the treasure-vaults of Time. 



Niihi at New Almaden 57 

While the great heart of the Mine 

Pulses strong beneath our feet, 
Overhead the roses twine 

Through the length of silent street. 

There — Toil's arteries throbbing strong 

With their tide of living men, — 
Here — a plaintive Spanish song 

Thrills the night at Almaden. 



58 Rose-Ashes 



A Night Ride 

Across the marshes' sombre reach, 

Where gathering shadows deepening lie, 
The glassy pools reflect the red 
Rich glory of the sky, 

Where fairest mysteries lie. 

Above the low coast-hills, the moon 

A new-born crescent lowly swings, 
Hand-clasped with Night's first star that tells 
Its tale of heavenly things. 

While low the slim moon swings. 

A ghost-like mist creeps slowly up — 

Creeps silent, slow, from distant bay. 
O'er gloom of marsh and gleam of pool 
It spreads its mantle grey, 

Sim-wroiight from out the bay. 



A Night Ride 59 

Above the noise of rushing train, 

I hear the marsh-bird's lonesome call, 
And turn from light and warmth within 
To watch night's shadows fall, 

And list the marsh-bird's call. 

My heart, like mirror pool, reflects 
A heaven of love I leave behind, 
A heaven of light and love I pray 
The shadows may not find, 

Dear light I leave behind. 

The clasping of my children's arms, 

Home's circling light and warmth and love, 
My lonely spirit calls for these 
As marsh-bird's cry might prove 
A cry for home and love. 



60 Rose-Ashes 



Why? 

Why do we strive to work a glad solution 
Of all life's problems here? 

Why should we eager question "Whence?" 
and ** Wherefore?" 
Of every falling tear? 

\Miy grieve that efifort fails of hoped fruition? 

That love unsought is given? 
That chafing spirits fret in hateful bondage? 

That tenderest ties are riven? 

That what seems wrong in our imperfect 
vision, 
Triumphs in place of right, 
As heaven's dear sunshine leaves the earth in 
sorrow, 
Affrighted by the night? 



WhyP 61 

If we could learn God's perfect law of being 
That rules thro' all the spheres, 

I think we then should know His glorious 
reason 
For toil and pain and tears. 

In the grand anthem wrought by life's creation 
Some notes seem dissonant, 

Because our human ears catch but imperfect 
Faint fragments of the chant. 

The march of God is ever forward — onward — 
Let us this truth discern, 

Upon Time's dial-plate Fate's mystic fingers 
Can never backward turn. 

Could we but see, as with angelic vision. 

What purpose is in pain, 
I think, perhaps, that sorrow's saddest numbers 

Might prove life's glad refrain. 



62 Rose- Ashes 



On the Border-Land of Tears 

On the border-land of tears, 
Raised by hopes or crushed by fears, 
Joy and grief alternate swell, 
In the soul no peace can dwell. 

On the border-land of tears 
Stand the ghosts of vanished years ; 
All we might be — and are not — 
Greet us on that haunted spot. 

Clouds, like ships, from shore to shore 
To and fro pass evermore. 
Sable bordered, — scarce appears 
Tint of peal through mist of tears. 

All Life's quivering mile-posts loom 
Sad as grave-stones through the gloom ; 
Trembling hopes are crushed by fears 
On the border-land of tears. 



At the Dawning 63 



At the Dawning 

Frail little barque on the rude ocean cast, 

— Ocean of Life, dark and wild, — 
Ah, many's the storm and the firce, cold blast. 
That may shipwreck thy hopes, ere the voyage 
be past, 
And thou be at rest, little child, 

— Dear one, — 
Safe from the storms dark and wild. 

Poor little feet ! that from thorns may bleed, 

— Thorns 'mid the roses cast! 
Be patient and suffer, for few will heed 
When the footsteps fail, or the tired feet bleed 

'Till the ending comes at last, 
— Poor feet, — 

And thorns and roses are past. 



64 Rose-Ashes 

Wondering eyes! to be dimmed by tears, 

— Tears often hid by a smile — 
Glad eyes, you'll grow sad in the coming years. 
For falsehood and treachery weeping your 
tears, 
'Neath the pitiful mask of a smile 

— Sad eyes, — 
Yes, weeping a weary while. 

Dear little heart! that must ache so sore, 

— Ache with a cruel pain — 
When bright visions fade, and hope shines no 

more,^ — 
Yes, ache till you reach the radiant shore 
Far over Life's troubled main, 

— Dear heart, — 
Where endeth all woe and pain. 



Fragments 65 



Fragments 

(From "An Idyl of Santa Barbara.") 
NIGHT-FALL AT SANTA BARBARA 

A precious amber vase just filled from Elysian 

fountains, 
Whose sacred libation is poured to the year's 

expiring ember, — 
A chalice whose wine is spilled over ocean and 

islands and mountains, 
Is the close of this perfect day of our California 

December. 

Like ghosts of the past stand the towers cross- 
tipped of the church of the Mission, 

While closer and closer the shadows creep 
round them like stricken things, — 

The shadows that seem like the souls of the 
years that have bowed at its altar. 

Or land-birds blown out over ocean that droop 
their desolate wings. 



66 Rose- Ashes 



SANTA BARBARA 



Where the roses' rich gifts are completest, 
Where sea-winds kiss odorous trees, 

Where song's liquid numbers are sweetest 
Santa Barbara looks out o'er the seas. 



LOVE 



Among the silver threads of Life 

So closely twine Love's golden strands, 

That if we loose their clinging hold, 
The fabric crumbles in our hands. 



Tempest-Tossed 



A DEDICATION 

An underground fountain zuhose springing 
Bespangles the desert luith flowers ; 

A 7test-hidden bird zvliose loiu singing 
Breaks silence of desolate hours; 

A low bank of violets, leaf hiddeti, 

IVhose odor is sensuous bliss; 
A bold wish that creeping ufibiddett, 

Li fts face for a welcoming kiss; 

Ti uc source of Life's deep inspiration, 
IVhose beauty and fragrance are mine. 

In the hush of a soul's exaltation 
This offering I place on your shrine. 



Spanish Song 69 



Spanish Song 

(From "An Idyl of Santa Barbara.") 

What does it -mean, — this tyrant spell that 
holds me 
A captive in its chain, — 
That thrills my wayward heart with strong 
emotion — 
Love's passion and its pain? 

O, restless soul that beats Life's bar unceasing, 

— A tiger held in thrall, — 
O, passion's surge that would engulf calm 
reason, 
And give to Love life's all ! 

Can I not curb the strong, defiant feeling 

That struggles in my soul. 
And scorns all form and law that cold 
convention 

Would frame in Love's control? 



70 Rose- Ashes 

I strive in vain, for all that life could grant me. 
Or hope's bright vision greet, 

My woman's heart would — haughty as an 
empress — 
Fling proudly at your feet, 

And ask no thought from you in compensation, 

No love-thrill in return; 
My own, unsought, from Life's rich depths 
must seek me. 

All else my heart would spurn. 

You are to me the noblest realization 
Of manhood grand and true. 

The one man in God's universe — I care not 
What I may be to you. 

And thus to live — swayed by a godlike feeling 

That may not be expressed, 
To bravely strive — yet never quite subduing 

Love's longing and unrest. 



The Cry of the Spirit 71 



The Cry of the Spirit 

The words that are spoken but shadow 
The thoughts that are never expressed, 

And back of life's turmoil there lieth 
The infinite rapture of rest. 

From over the mountains enshadowed 
There flusheth the glory of dawn ; 

Gethsemane's gateway but claspeth 
The way that a Saviour has gone. 

Through avenues cypress-embordered, 
Love walketh with radiant crown ; 

From cross-tipped summits of anguish 
The pitying Christ looketh down. 

We turn from the hands that are offered 
To those that we cannot grasp, 

And faint in our terrible longing 

For forms that we never may clasp. 



72 Rose- Ashes 

From the arms held out to embrace us, 
We shrink with a moaning, to pray 

For the pressure of arms that are folded 
Forever and ever away. 

O, what does it mean — all this yearning 
For something forever beyond, 

This passionate cry of the spirit, 
This waiting on days undawned? 

O, fathomless ocean of longing 
That breaks on a glittering strand 

Beyond where our thought-shafts may 
quiver, 
— The shore of an unknown land. 

You bear on your bosom forever 
Our shallops of hope — pain-born — 

Sent out in the nights of our sorrow. 
To seek for the harbor of morn. 



A Woman* s Response 73 



A Woman's Response 

My friend, your words of eloquence, 
Your tones of passion-pleading, 

The tremulous music of your voice, 
Fall on my heart unheeding. 

A dark face, like a cameo, 
Comes evermore before me, 

To exorcise the passion-spell 

Your thrilling touch casts o'er me. 

When I would yield me to the tide 
That torrent-like impels me, 

A dreamy memory lulls my brain. 
And from your arms compels me ; — 

The memory of a proud, dark face, 
With eyes of tender meaning. 

Which I may never seek across 
The chasms intervening. 



74 Rose- Ashes 

Ah ! Life, for me, means one long strife 

With rebel foes internal, 
A ceaseless struggle of the soul 

To stand on heights supernal. 

The dark face like a cameo, 
With eyes of tender meaning. 

May never come to me across 
The chasms intervening. 

At Love's high altar I have bowed. 
The sacred Host revealing, 

I cannot prove apostate now. 
At shrines less holy, kneeling. 

And so, I cannot see your eyes 
So full of passion-pleading; 

The tremulous music of your voice 
l-'alls on my heart unheeding. 



After All 75 



After All 

I have come to my room all alone to-night, 
A respite from care here to borrow ; 

But I sink on my knees by the side of my couch, 
Bowed down by a tempest of sorrow. 

I have been so brave through the long busy day 
For the toil and the earnest endeavor, 

That I deemed my feet on the strong white 
heights 
Would stand thus securely forever. 

I have prayed for strength, and I thought it 
was mine. 
Every passionate heart-cry to smother ; 
The touch of your hand should be henceforth 
to me 
I said — but as that of another. 



76 Rose-Ashes 

And calmly I stood on the summits of peace, 
And heard not the pitiful sobbing 

Of sorrowful surges which beat at their base 
With ceaseless, insistent throbbing. 



And yet — after all — I have come to my room, 
A tryst here with memory keeping, 

But to sink on my knees by the side of my 
couch 
In a pitiful tempest of weeping. 



My love, must it always end this way for me, 
— This strife of the spirit and human, — 

]\Iust I be, when all the strong effort is done, 
Just a loving and sorrowful woman? 



Must ever I toil to gain heavenly heights 
Where respite from passion is surest, 

To be always hurled from their summits of 
peace 
When I deem that my feet are securest? 



After All 77 

To be hurled by the thought of a long ago kiss, 
Or the thrilling of vanished caresses, — 

Borne down by a flood-tide of memory, thick- 
strewn 
With the flotsam a wrecked Past possesses. 



78 Rose-Ashes 



Nepenthe 

I live as in a dream, 
Treading alone life's pathway through the 

years, 
Walking alone, alike in smiles or tears — 

Walking as in a dream. 

It seems but vaguely true 
That many changing years have passed me by, 
— So many years — since last I said "Good-bye" 

To love — and hope — and you. 

Ah, well ! 'twas better so, — 
Better we parted in the years long flown, 
Better that I should live my life alone, 

And sadly bid you go. 

For your bright pathway led 
To that dim height where Fame defieth Death, 
Mine through deep vales fanned by the fevered 
breath 

Of hopes now cold and dead. 



Nepenthe 79 

Yet once I fondly deemed 
That naught on Earth could ever soothe my 

grief, 
That Heaven alone could give my soul relief, 

So sad to me life seemed. 

I smile — and yet I sigh — 
To think that once — ah, once — I loved you so — 
Made you my idol, and could feel such woe 

To speak the last "Good-bye." 

All feeling now is fled; 
No pain stirs in my heart at thought of you. 
Only the faith that Love and Heaven are 
true, — 

All — all beside is dead. 



80 Rose-Ashes 



Ojald 



I wish I knew that from this wearying dark- 
ness, 

Through which I grope my way, 
I'd come at last to see the clear blue heavens. 

And greet God's perfect day. 

If some day I should turn from toil and 
sadness, 
To meet your clasping hand. 
And know, at last, that all my soul's deep 
longing 
Your own could understand, — 

Could I but know that in some far sweet 
morning, 
A\'e should stand side by side. 
And in that hour find all Life's questions 
answered, 
I should be satisfied. 



And Yet 81 

And Yet 

I would my soul were free 
From love's sweet slavery, 
The heights of perfect peace to proudly greet ; 
I'd know no chains to fret, 
No bonds of love, — and yet 
Love's slavery is so sweet! 

Could I forget you, dear, 
Cease wishing you were here, 
Cease holding my soul's arms your own to 
meet, 
I know that peace I'd gain, 
In freedom from Love's chain, 
But — slavery is so sweet! 

And so — I cannot, dear. 
Cease wishing you were here, 
Cease holding my soul's arms your own to 
meet, 
Nor even wish to be 
From such dear bondage free — 
Love's slavery is so sweet ! 



82 Rose- Ashes 



In Bondage 

"Let us be free," we said, "to come and go. 
Bound by no ties that fetter us in vain, 

No viewless chains the world should never 
know, 
That cut into the heart with ceaseless pain." 

"We will be free," I said, I was so strong 
To win the radiant heights where souls are 
free. 
My words seemed echo of a brave sweet song 
That passed in waves of light from you to 
me. 

The clasping of your hand I put away, 

And turned me from the love-light of your 
eyes; 

I was so brave, I thought, to turn away 
And shut the gate 'twixt me and Paradise. 



In Bondage 83 

To turn away — because an angel stood 

With sword of duty, pointing stern the way 

Through starless night and dreary solitude, 
Where Love and Pity send no hopeful ray. 

And am I free? Yes, as the prisoned bird 
That beats its weary wings against the bars, 

Is free to soar and let her song be heard 
Full in the glory of the sun and stars. 

Yes, free — as all things caged and bound are 
free 
To cast aside their chains for dance and song; 
I live to know that, through eternity 

Love's chains beyond all human will are 
strong. 



84 Rose- Ashes 



Suspense 

O, torturing sweetness of kisses 
That wait — and long to be given ! 

O, tender completeness of blisses 

That beckon from Hope's dream-heaven ! 

Will dear hands that greet us in grasping 
Respond to the thrill of our own? 

\\\\\ fond arms that meet us in clasping 

Hold us close — as in dreams they have done? 

O, eyes that with love-light are burning, 
Will your warm glance ever grow cold 

With the shadow of change or of turning 
From the passionate ardor of old? 



Pursued 85 



Pursued 

Pursued by the fear that a sorrow 
May steal like a wolf to my fold, — 

By dread lest the dawn of to-morrow 
May herald some anguish untold. 

Oppressed by a shadowy terror 

That Wrong has crept in for the Right, 

That Truth has been murdered by Error — 
Her blood blurs the fountain of light. 

O, Mountains of Peace that like spectres 
Seem shivering and shrinking away. 

Shall ever I tread your calm summits 
In strength of some far distant day? 



86 Rose- Ashes 



Nirvana 

To cease the toil, the strife, the fierce endeavor, 

To close sad, tearful eyes, 
To fold the weary hands in restful stillness. 

After death's glad surprise. 

To lie enmantled by the cool green clover, 

In hush of dreamless rest, 
To heed no more the mystery of Day's 
dawning, 

Or red death in the west. 

To claim a kinship with the stoic mountain. 

In placid silentness, 
A brotherhood with rocks and turf and grasses 

Which rain and winds caress. 

To put aside the strife for worldly treasures, 

All passionate desire, 
To be absorbed into the womb of Nature, 

Merged in creative fire. 



Nirvana 87 

To be embodied in the trees and blossoms, 
Or winds and rainbow lights, 

The psychic essence of cloud-tints and 
sunshine, 
Or grace of swallow-flights. 

To see the End clasp hands with the Beginning, 
— Life's mystic circle, wrought 

By plan Divine, — each earth-born link a symbol 
With deepest meaning fraught. 



OTHER POEMS 



At Santa Cruz 91 



At Santa Cruz 

For hours I watched the languid breakers 
creep 
Along the smooth, gray beach at Santa 
Cruz, — 
A charmed watch I could not choose but keep, 
Lest I some witchery of the scene should 
lose. 

Across the dreamy distance of the bay, 
Whose azure dimples glisten in the light. 

The low foot-hills that shelter Monterey 
Like half-seen spectres tremble in my sight. 

Ben Lomond, monarch of the hills that hold 
This green-walled crescent in a fond 
embrace, 

Stands like a giant of the days of old. 

And lifts to heaven his calm, majestic face. 



92 Rose-Ashes 

From deep ravines and summits dark with 
pines, 
From rugged hills where laurel and madrone 
Mingle with redwoods, or where wild wood 
vines 
Creep through deep glens no human foot has 
known, 

Float resinous odors on the warm, soft gale 
To meet the sea-winds and the ocean dews, 

These meeting forces mix, dissolve, exhale 
And spill their incense over Santa Cruz. 

And while I heard the languid breakers moan, 
And pulse their ceaseless tide upon the 
sands, 
I learned a secret in their monotone, 

And read the signal of their white foam 
hands. 



storm- Born 93 



Storm-Born 

Like forms half seen, that float 
Adown the quivering river of our sleep, 
I see the grand gray hills their vigil keep. 
Through storm and mist that down their bare 
sides sweep. 

They seem as things remote. 

Chant me your hymn, oh Storm, 
And Night and Darkness that around me lie! 
Shout me your deepest meaning, oh ye Sky, 
And Lightning-darts, that waken but to die 

In Thunder's fierce alarm ! 

Are ye not types of Life, 
Ye haunting spirits of the upper deep. 
Strong human life, born but to watch and 

weep. 
Whose restless throbs find, but with Death's 
calm sleep. 
Surcease of toil and strife? 



94 Rose-Ashes 

Dost symbol Love divine, 
Ye everlasting hills, whose regal crest 
Is pillowed on the Storm's tumultuous breast? 
Not Time nor wildest Storm thrills with 
unrest 

That steadfast heart of thine. 

Oh Life, that ceaselessly 
]\Ioans and complains as weary heart-sick child, 
Thy father bids thee turn from tempests wild 
To Love — thy mother. Thee, their wayward 
child. 

She calls most tenderly. 



Coming Home 95 



Coming Home 

Gleaming through rain and darkness 

I see the lights of my home, 
Where my children all are gathered 

Waiting for "Mamma" to come. 

My eldest born — my Willie — 

Who leaves for a moment his book, — 

The ''Arabian Night's Entertainments," 
To come to the window and look. 

He is dreaming of fairies and genii. 
And castles, strong and grand. 

Which he shall go forth to conquer 

With the strength of his own right hand. 

My son, when you go out to battle, 

To do a man's brave part, 
You will find there are giants to conquer 

Whose homes are in the heart. 



96 Rose- Ashes 

Do battle 'gainst Wrong and Oppression, 

Take arms in Humanity's cause, 
Strike for Right and for Principle always, 

Regardless of blame or applause. 

There is Mary, — my first-born daughter, — 
With her tender, woinanly grace, 

And the beautiful soul that speaks through her 
eyes 
And glorifies her face; 

The pearl of mother's treasures 

In the diadem of Home. 
Ah ! my heart is filled with longing 

As I think of the years that must come; 

When she shall take up her life-work 

Of willing hands or brain. 
And mother's arms can shield her no more 

From the heart-aches and the pain. 

Then my little, restless Roy, 

With his fancies queer and quaint, 

Repeating odd lines from Whittier, 
His childish patron saint. 



Coming Home 97 

Will life be cruel to you, 

My delicate, sensitive one. 
When you go out to meet its giants, 

That each must encounter alone? 

May angels of love attend you. 
For your spirit w^ould faint, I fear, 

Without their kind ministrations 
And their presence ever near. 

Last, my golden-haired "Delmasita," 

Whose blue-gray eyes reveal 
That the secrets of the Pyramids 

Their v^ondrous depths conceal. 

Child of Life's glorious promise 

Of Prediction and Prophecy, 
That hint of a life-work for brain and will 

The fates have assigned to thee. 

Remember that where much is given 

Very much will be required, 
And do whatever is thine to do 

By the highest motives inspired. 



96 Rose-Ashes 

And thus my heart gives them greeting 

Across the lessening space 
Of dark, which I traverse to meet them 

And take my accustomed place. 

Ah! I know I'll remember in Heaven 
This joyful coming home, — 

When I shall be watching and waiting, 
For my children all to come. 

December, 1884. 



]^illmg to Go Forward 99 



Willing to Go Forward 

^'Say unto the Children of Israel that they £0 forward."' 

(To Rev. and Mrs. N. A. Haskell. A ugust, 1893.) 

When the soul stands in some dark crucial 

hour, 
Just by the gate of its Gethseinane, 
And with prophetic vision sees beyond 
Stretch cypress bordered ways evanishing, 
Through which comes not one ray of blessed 

light, 
Nor promise of a height where sunlight falls, 
Or roses bloom, or joy-birds gladly sing — 
Then what but voice of God can give it heart 
To ope the gate and bravely enter in, 

Willing to go forward? 



100 Rose- Ashes 

What shall we say of loving gratitude 
To one, who in such hour can firmly clasp 
Our shrinking hands that fain would hide our 

tears, 
And with no doubtful voice teach us to see 
With eyes of faith, the infinite rest and peace 
That hold to us entreating arms across 
The farther portal of the darkest way? 
Can make it all — the joy of the beyond, 
The bliss that shines across the ''sorrowful 

way" — 
So clear, so plain, that with glad voice we cry 

"Willing to go forward." 

Dear friend — to whom we tearful say to-night 
Not quite "farewell," but "till God's own good 

time," 
And "Mizpah" for the waiting interval — 
This have you done unconscious week by 

week: 
Into some shrinking heart that hardly dared 
To face life's problems day by day, you turned 
The sunshine of your higher faith and gave 
The courage to go forward. Into hands 



Willing to Go Forward J 01 

That else would timorously have let fall 
Life's burden, as a too sad, weary weight, 
You have infused a strength that is of God, 
A power to lift and firmly clasp what load 
He deems them worthy of ; and made tired feet 
''Willing to go forward." 

And, so, to-night we fain would say to you 
In timid, halting speech, yet lovingly: 
"May the dear God His tenderest blessings 

shower 
On you and yours, unceasing; may you bear 
So clear a vision of the waiting joy 
That guards the outer portal of each way, — 
How dark soe'er the cypress-bordered reach 
Stretching between, — that your exultant soul 
In singing, may not feel the pain ; in faith 
Of light forget that it is dark ; and thus 
Attuned to heavenly harmonies ever be 

'Willing to go forward.' " 



102 Rose- Ashes 



The Legend of Amapola 

Deep in the bosom of that mountain range 
Which crosses California north and south — 
With many a branching spur to east and 

west — 
Close clasped by rocky ledges, lies concealed 
Vein upon vein of purest, virgin gold. 
Far in the depths of some forgotten Past, — 
Ere man had come to search the treasure out — 
The ardent sun had pierced the hiding place 
W'ith his warm wooing, and had won his suit. 
And from this union — Sun with Gold — was 

born 
The Amapola, California's flower, 
Its swaddling clothes, the warm delicious air 
Of California Aprils ; and its fount 
Baptismal, softly falling rains and dews 
That bid to greenness her brown-bosomed hills ; 
While every twittering call-bird that salutes 
The day-break with his pipings, and the lark 
That sings his Matin and his Vesper hymns 
In deep blue heavens — these were choristers; 



The Legend of Amapola 1 03 

The priest, — the Spirit of the broad, free West ; 
While sighing pine and moaning ocean gave 
With ''married music," solemn sponsor vows. 

Through countless years the gorgeous blossom 

bore 
A name unknown save but to Sun and Gold, 
Sponsors and Priest, and they have told it not 
To listening ear of man. But one day came, 
A hundred years or more ago, a band 
Of holy friars to our shore, who bore 
Christ's cross to savage races in our wilds. 
This sun-gold flower they "Amapola," named. 
Adding as whispered benedicite, 
"Copa de oro" — holy grail, which holds 
Within its sacred chalice, heaven's gifts 
Of warmth and beauty — California's dower. 
These mystic names the early Father's gave 
So long ago, and blessed with prayer and sign. 
Let not "Eschscholtzia" dare erase, or write 
Her own across. But let the sun-gold flower 
Be "Amapola" to the end of time, 
With "Copa de oro" — tender sigh of love — 
God's "cup of gold" — a prayerful after-thought. 



]04 Rose- Ashes 



Alum Rock Canyon 

Once, long ago, when Nature's hand 

Was busy at formation. 
She found a box of chaos scraps, 

The loveliest of creation. 

And so, in sweet caprice — who knows? — 
To please some dear companion. 

She took the store of beauty-scraps 
And made this matchless canyon. 

The wildest, sweetest, fairest things 
Are here in glen and torrent. 

You'll vow there never was a place 
Like Alum Rock, I warrant. 

The quaint madrone, the laurel trees. 
And countless shrubs that cover 

The mountain sides ; the soft, warm air, 
The blue sky bending over, 



Alum Rock Canyon JOS 

Make it a spot — when weary worn — 
You seek with loved companion, 

And find the gods of rest and peace 
Dwell in this matchless canyon. 

1895. 



106 Rose- Ashes 



In Memory of Mrs. E. O. Smith 

(Written for her memorial service, Sept. 11, 1904.) 

To write a verse in memory of our friend, 

This honored task I feel I cannot do, 

In presence of the poem of her life — 

Its rythm, depth and tender cadences — 

I pause in reverence, and knov^^ that rhyme 

And measured words are all inadequate 

To speak the heart full thoughts we have of 

her. 
So, but a modest tribute here I bring 
And on love's altar place — speaking her name. 

She lived her life so grandly ; she took up 
So bravely all it gave of joy or pain. 
Whatever duty offered did so well, 
With gentle dignity and womanly grace, 
That those who knew her best marveled the 
most. 



In Memory of Mrs. E, 0. Smith 107 

And yet no duty ever pressed so hard 
She had not time to reach a hand to one 
In need of aid ; how many such were drawn 
Within her sphere of sweet beneficence, 
In their fierce hour of need, only our Lord 
And her own guardian angel ever knew. 

Her marvelous energies could well have shaped 
The destiny of nations; yet so filled 
With human sympathy and selfless love 
For all her kind, was her great heart, she spent 
Her life in thought for others, and their weal ; 
To plan, to guide, encourage or inspire 
Whatever effort that could work for good 
Of others — always others — never self. 

How much we miss her, only years can tell, 
In which we turn to ask her wise advice. 
Or clasp her kindly hand — to find her gone. 
Yet could this friend belov'd tell us today — 
This very while we meeting mourn for her — • 
All that it means to solve the problem of 
Death's solemn mystery, not one of us 
Who loved her so, and felt it must not be 



108 Rose- Ashes 

That she should go, would wish to call her 

back. 
And yet, remembering all we lose in her. 
Our need steps in between her greater gain 
A.nd us ; grief blinds us, and we feel that earth 
Is lonelier without her, ever more. 



To Ina Coolbrith 109 



To Ina Coolbrith 

Long years ago, while yet my eyes 
I shaded from the dazzling light 

Of one beloved sun-star, that shed 
His kindly radiance on my sight. 

You came within the scintillant sphere 
Of aureole light enfolding him — 

And then two stars together sang, 

Clear, sweet, upon dawn's whitening rim. 

He faded from our sky — but you 

Staid — singing, still with stronger tone; 

Our homes were yours, our gods, our hearts, 
And you are California's own. 

Then let me, least of all the lights 

Of California's minstrelsy, 
Greet you for her, and give you hail ! 

Our Morning Star of Poesy. 
Ban Jose, Cal., January 29, 1907. 



110 Rose- Ashes 



'•'At the Cross-road 

There's a time in the life of each mortal, 
When he stands by a shadowy gate, 

Beyond whose mysterious portal 
Diverges the cross-road of Fate. 

The gate swings apart and he glances 
Bewildered down vanishing ways, 

And out over unknown expanses — 
A wish and a prayer in his gaze. 

He'd choose the bright pathway of pleasure 

And linger in rose-bowers of ease, 
Would grasp in his strong hand Life's treasure 

And drink its rich wine to the lees. 



*The poems which follow were left by Mrs. Walter in manuscript 
form, some in the making, hence incomplete in places, and many 
of them not yet subjected to the final test of her ever rigid polish- 
ing. M. W. 



At the Cross-road III 

Then gaily Fate's dice-box he rattles, 
With laughter and jest, casts his die, 

Of Love and of Pleasure he prattles. 
Hears song-larks of Hope in the sky. 

In this crisis of Time, what he chooses, 
But God and the future can tell. 

He wins and Hope crowns him ; — or loses 
And treads the scorched pathway of Hell. 

But never again at Life's portal 
May he linger and dreamily wait; 

'Tis given but once to each mortal 
To stand at the cross-road of Fate. 



/ 12 Rose- Ashes 



Santa Cruz, December 23, 1890 

The tide goes out and the tide comes in, 
But never a tide comes in for me, 

Till death shall perish and life begin 
On the distant shores of a farther sea. 

I am sick to the heart of this fierce, rude strife, 
This struggle to be and to hold my own. 

To call this barest existence life! 

With death-songs of love for its undertone. 

O breakers, that mark on the quivering sands 

The heart beats of ocean forever the same, 

Do you reach me in pity your white foam 

hands. 

As I breathe in your pauses, my prayer — 

a name? 

Ah ! the tide creeps out and the tide creeps in, 
But one day a tide shall come to me 

On the shadowy shore of a dreamy sea, 
Where death shall perish and life begin. 



Mi. Hamilton 113 



Mt. Hamilton 
[. 

Mt. Hamilton : what joy to tread 
Thy wooded ways and hilly, 

To seek in upland fields of gold 
The Mariposa lily; 

Or creep through dim sequestered paths 

To secret pastures leading, 
Where half afraid, beneath the trees, 

The wild, slim deer are feeding; 

In wooded glooms to come upon 
The gentle harebells sleeping, 

Where perfumed silence is but stirred 
By wild-cat's stealthy creeping; 

To watch in manzanita groves 
The timid quail low crouching, 

Along the bare hills yellow side 
The lank coyote slouching. 



114 Rose- Ashes 

II. 

What is the tie that binds my soul to yours, 

O hills of Hamilton? 
With strands that fail not, but whose strength 
endures 

While my life's course shall run? 

Great loving hills that took me to your breast 
— Tired frame and broken heart — 

And wrapped me in your winds of peace and 
rest. 
My life of thine a part ! 

Hills of my heart! no other love like mine 

Was ever given thee 
Since first your glorious heads were reared to 
shine 

Beside the western sea. 

When tenderest ties of love for me were dead, 
As mountain mist exhaled — 

And I left desolate, to thee I fled, 

Whose welcome never failed. 



Mt. Hamilton 115 

All human help may fail — the heavens be brass 

Above the aching head — 
Yet steadfast — you — whose love may only pass 

When earth itself is dead. 



116 Rose- Ashes 



Reincarnation 

This strange Buddhistic faith — that we have 
lived 

In former incarnations on the earth — 
That we may come again long ages hence, 

Through Karmic forces to a happier birth, 

If we have garnered in this present life, 
And in the former ones, sufficient store 

Of this same Karma — thro' unselfish love 
And toil for others, to unclasp life's door ; 

It creeps about my heart until I fain 

Would wring the secret from the long gone 
years, 
And know the story of my wrong-lived life 
That brought me this deserved baptism of 
tears. 



Reincarnation 117 

I see the great hot desert round me lie, 
Far to the north and east in endless reach, 

While to the south, the warm Erythrsen sea 
Throbs its strong pulse upon a low white 
beach. 



O, hot, magnetic, soundless desert, where 
Not one poor, flippant tree or shrub intrudes 

Its punj presence to divert the soul 
From the hushed awe of God's own solitudes, 

I reach my hand to you across the span 
Of chilling western life that seeks to hold 

This strong fierce soul of mine in half-loosed 
clasp 
And, homesick, cry for that free life of old. 

What is it that I did or left undone 

In that glad life, my soul's own native land, 

That I was banished to the cold of this, 
Tossed on bleak rocks that spurn my cling- 
ing hand? 



118 Rose- Ashes 

And can 1 gaiiier by a life of toil 

And self renunciation thro' long years, 

By laying on some altar day by day 

All I have asked of God in prayer and tears, 
tears, 

Enough of this Karmaic force to give 

My homesick soul a passport to the land 

It yearns unceasing for — that lies close by 
The Arab sea, — the sun-kissed desert sand, 

Then I can reach my glad arms up to God, 
Unfettered by the chains that gall in this, 

Can feel the desert fire thrill in my veins 
And meet the simoon as a lover's kiss. 

Then I may lie at will as long ago, 

My garments but the mantle of the heat 

Wrought by the sun ; my home a silken tent 
Where skins of savage beasts caress my feet, 

Where I am queen of all the desert round 
Whose wild fierce sons obey me as of old. 

Whose green oases feed my countless herds, 
My noble steeds that but the deserts hold. 



Reincarnation 119 

And then some happy day, will come again 
My King, still thro' this dreary time my own, 

For whom my soul has mourned in all this life 
In saddest widowhood — and been alone. 

For he was stronger, truer far than I 
Doomed to no exile by this law divine 

Of restitution — but in patience waits 

With faithful heart the full extent of mine; 

My King — my love — who comes to me across 
Wide desert wastes from far Euphrates' 
plain, 
When Karma's will is wrought, and I have 
won 
The clasping of his sheltering arms again. 

Oh ! I will strive and count them not as long 
The years this incarnation brings of pain, 

If I can win my desert lone and free, 

My home, my King, my native wilds again. 



120 Rose- Ashes 



Monte Piedra 

On toil-won summits God's sweet peace 
Enfolds the weary hearted ; 

Alone, upon this mountain top 

I check the tear drops, started. 

Your rock-crowned summit which I win 
By pathways steep and weary, 

Another summit, stands, for me, 

Up pathways far more dreary. 

I brought among your pines and rocks 
A heart too sad for sighing; 

Your strength puts my weak will to shame, 
Your soul to mine replying. 

So here I lay my burdens down, 

Upon your strength, my weakness, 

And Life's sad summits lose for me 
One-half the olden bleakness. 



Monte Piedra 121 

I cannot say yet, **I am strong 

For Life's demand or duty," 

But only this, ''Such strength will come, 

Brought by your strength and beauty." 

For this I crown you Mount of Peace — 

Cross-tipped— though heaven-shining— 

Your toil-won summits bring to me 

God's peace for weak repining. 



122 Rose-Ashes 



Conflict 

With my hand-clasp on your throat, with my 

knee upon your breast — 
Lest you rob my soul of peace, lest you steal 

my spirit's rest — 
Giant form of tyrant Passion, pale with love's 

sharp agony, 
I would kill you with my hand-clasp, crush you 

with my trembling knee. 

I would crush you, I would kill you, hurl you 

from me cold and still — 
Yet you woo me, ah ! you win me, spite of all 

my strength of will. 
I would fiercely crush and kill you, In my 

spirit's deep unrest. 
Yet you softly woo and win me with your 

head upon my breast. 



Conflict 123 

God-like form of tyrant Passion, pale witii 
love's sweet agony, 

Clasp me, hold me, I would yield me, to thy 
deepest ecstacy; 

I would slay you — but you hold me in a rap- 
ture of unrest 

With your strong arms close about me and 
your head upon my breast. 



124 Rose- Ashes 



May 2, 1903 

(In Memory of Willie Walter.) 

Twelve years, twelve years ! ah, is it that since 

then? 
That day of days that strikes its piercing root 
So deep into my soul that time nor change 
Can ever by the faintest slackening loose 
The fierceness of its hold upon my life! 

Not time nor space nor earth's convulsions 

count 
In those strong tides that overwhelm the soul, 
Submerged beneath whose waste of waters lie 
All earthly things ; on whose compelling crest 
Tosses an ark that holds — ah ! what it holds ! 
Leaven of life eternal — and the dove 
That best of all in earth can bring God's 

peace 
That understanding passeth. Ah, the ark, 
That this wild deluge floats to loftiest heights 
That else were unattained — of Aararat. 



May 2, 1903 125 

But yet, dear heart, as I sit here and count 
By aching heart throbs all the years since 

then — 
That day you kissed yourself out of my life — 
My life that needed you, God knows how 

much — 
And when the brave, sweet, manly soul you 

were 
Went smiling back to God that gave me you, 
The way grows dark before me and I hurt 
Through all my being with the travail pain 
That would from earth's all too constricting 

womb 
Deliver me new born to that fair world 
Wherein I know you dwell and wait for me. 



126 Rose- Ashes 



Some Day 

Through the fogs and the clouds that surround 
us, 
We are cheered by one glmimering ray, 
-A promise that Hope keeps repeating. 
"Your ship will come in — some day." 

Tho' the winds are all firm set against it, 
And it's drenched by the dashing spray. 

And empty the hold and the locker. 

Yet — ''our ship will come in — some day." 

Tho' we starve for the bread she is bringing, 
For the wines, tho' we faint by the way, — 

And are chilled for the warm silken garments 
That our ship will bring in — some day, 

Yet, what is the long weary waiting; 

"It soon will be over," we say, 
As we look far across the dark waters, 

Whence our ship will come in — some day. 



Some Day 127 

And what though a shroud and a coffin 
Awaits him who sinks by the way; 

In the beautiful harbor of Heaven 
Is his ship not in that day? 



128 Rose-Ashes 



Love 

Oh ! what is it all but a hurt — at best, 
And a woman's heart-undoing? 

A passion-tossed hope, a fierce unrest. 
And a chase not worth pursuing? 

Oh ! a woman's love, for which man pleads 

Like a god — is ever and ever 
But dead-sea apples whose ashes fall 

With a sting on the heart of the giver. 

Could he prove as fond when the prize is won 

And the fierce pursuit is over — 
Could he give her truth for the truth he asks. 

And the lover be always a lover. 

Then Love would not be a hurt at last. 

And a woman's heart undoing — 
Not a phantom that fades when the chase is 
done 

Unworthy the hot pursuing. 



Pip and Ingle 129 



Pip and Ingle 

Up Memory's telephonic wire 

I hear an old time message jingle, 

That speaks of friendships new lit fire, 
When you were Pip and I was Ingle. 

Ah, me! those vealy days of youth, 
Their memory makes my pulses tingle ! 

Those days of mutual trust and truth. 
When you and I were Pip and Ingle. 

And now among my auburn strands. 
The silver threads are far from single. 

While yours, snatched out by Time's rude 
hands, 
Bald-headed Pip ! and gray-haired Ingle ! 

But still the love and trust of youth 
Make as of old my heart-strings tingle; 

You always will be Pip to me. 
And I to you am always Ingle. 

To Charles Warren Stoddard. 



130 Rose- Ashes 



What Is It to Be Akin? 

Two may be born within a common home, 
Of self-same parents, reared beside one hearth, 
Be trained alike from youth to man's estate. 
Walk down one path from childhood unto age. 
And sleep at last within a common grave, 
And yet be not akin. 

Two may be born the whole wide world apart, 
Of alien race — speaking an alien tongue; 
Trained up in dilTerent ways from youth to 

age. 
Yet, meeting, one day recognize in each 
The Buddha's sacred mark of brotherhood. 

It is not accident of blood or place 

Of birth that makes humanity akin ; 

But something that lies deeper in the soul — 

As arteries that bear the rich, red flow 



What Is It to Be Akin? 131 

Of life lie far below the refuse bearing veins : 
The same benevolent impulse in the heart 
To aid a struggling brother in his need; 
The kindred wish to banish low desires 
For higher things — and good of all mankind; 
The kindred instinct of beneficence 
To wipe off tears and dash their track with 

smiles; 
The kindred thrill of reverence when the bow 
Of God arches the rain-washed heaven ; 
The joy born of roses perfumed red, 
Or violet's fragrant purple in green leaves ; 
The throb of selfsame rapture at the cry 
Of first-born babe, — one surge of gratitude 
That out of travail pain conies perfect joy; 
The sharing of one grief o'er coffined form, 
Placing of lilies pale, or asphodels 
In tiny fingers that can never more 
Return a loving clasp, — 
These show a closer tie of brotherhood 
Than accident of birth. 



132 Rose-Ashes 

The environments of birth — its time and place, 
These are but flotsam on the sea of life 
Whose stream, from Infinite to Infinite, 
Scarce feels their weak disturbance of its tide, 
But sets toward unknown shores, or haply 

toward 
Some Saragasso sea of rest and peace, 
Where in infinitude of thoughtful calm 
W^e reach life's great solution that mankind 
Are brothers all and seeming difference 
Is difference of stage along the road. 
The King's highway from that mysterious 

place 
"In the Beginning" — to that other place, 
No less mysterious, which we call "the end" 
For lack of better term, but which may be 
A new beginning — to a higher end. 
Thus on and on and on — 

Infinity. 



Fallibility 133 



Fallibility 

Oh, could I hold me to the high ideal 
My soul in hours of ecstacy has wrought, 

Could I but make this heavenly vision real, 
And grasp the phantom I so long have 
sought ! 

And stand upon those heights of perfect 
whiteness. 
Whose snows have chilled all physical 
desires ; 
To face the sun undazzled by its brightness, 
Whose rays are free from any earthly fires; 

To put aside forever all the yearning 

For clasping arms or touch of lips or hand ; 

To stand unmoved by any fear of turning, 
Loyal to all I prize as pure and grand ! 



134 Rose- Ashes 

But ah, this falling down, this strong endeavor 
To rise again, from earthly longings free ; 

This piteous struggle that goes on forever 
That I would conquer, yet which conquers 
me! 

Why was I cursed with this two-fold existence, 
\\'ith power to see, and not the power to do, 

To know that safety lies but in resistance, 
Without the strength to hold life's rudder 
true? 



Fragment 135 



Fragment 

I do not ask if you have loved before, 
Or, I being dead, if you could love again. 
For loving me now, you know old love no 

more. 
And I being dead, could feel no jealous 

pain. 

What if on stepping-stones of some dead low 
We climbed to this, our life's most perfect 

bliss. 
Or, death dividing us, one grope to prove 
Some ease of pain in love less fond than 

this? 



MEMORIAL TRIBUTES 

TO 

CARRIE STEVENS WALTER 



Memorial Tributes 139 



To Carrie Stevens Walter 

(Obit 26, April, 1907.) 

Believing, as I must, that the soul is im- 
mortal, and that it is the soul speaking through 
this fleshly instrument, I say to you, dear 
spirit, do you recall those old days in the early 
sixties when you were a young poet at school 
in Oakland, when I first met you? 

We could neither of us look forward into the 
future — now the past. You did not know that 
you were to love and to suffer, as you have, 
dear friend. I did not know my fate — but the 
Good God has brought me home to the place 
I love better than any other on earth, and it 
is here I receive the word that tells me your 
earthly career is at an end. 

Think, dear friend, of the old days when 
we were school mates. You were writing your 
first verses and how sweet they were. 



140 Rose- Ashes 

Not in all these years have I lost faith in 
you. You have been not only the poet, but 
the practical one who has made a blessed home 
for the splendid children you have brought 
into the world. 

I can truthfuly say that in spite of adversity 
your spirit has ever been the same — bright, 
happy, eager, brave. I wish I could say the 
same of mine. 

And now, when your new life begins, you 
will not forget us. You will remember that 
even from the old school days we have been the 
same bosom friends. That we have shared 
our joys and sorrows. That like an other 
sister you have stood by me and helped me — 
as I would to God I could have helped you — 
and that your cheerful temperament shed a 
bright ray into a life that has not been without 
its shadows. 

For the love of you, dear friend, death is 
less dreadful. I seem to have you still by the 
hand. You are nearer to me now than you 
were a few days ago ; and because 3^ou are now 
a spirit, never more to be burdened with the 



Memorial Tributes 141 

care and cross of life, I send you the loyal love 
of more than forty years. 

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 
Monterey, California, 27th of April, 1907. 



142 Rose- Ashes 



It is her birthday. The sun shines ; the birds 
sing joyously; the west wind sighs among the 
roses in her quiet garden. The sweet-briar 
which she loved and planted at her window 
climbs riotously upward to the eaves; its 
nameless sweetness comes into her room in 
friendliness and stirs about her face as if it 
knew, and, knowing, knew she knew. 

And there* she lies so still, so white, so 
peacefully ! Tall candles burning at her head, 
unheeding all the beauty of the world — she 
that so loved the beautiful ! 

Her hands were ever reached to them that 
suffered need; her heart beat hardest for the 
heart that ached. It does not seem that she 
could be so quiet while people mourn. A city 
rises up to pay her tribute with its grief, and 
still she rests unheeding all of it; upon her 
face the mystery of babes that smile in dreams, 
but on her brow the majesty of those who have 
fought the great, great fight, and conqured as 
they fell. She stepped out into God's unknown 
with her armor on and at the head. 



Memorial Tributes 143 

Tender, loving mother ; bravest,truest friend, 
I lay a white flower at her feet, and say as we 
have said in many bygone years: ^'Goodbye, 
dear heart ; God bless you." 

MADGE MORRIS, 

April 27, 1907. 



144 Rose- Ashes 



Carrie Stevens Walter 

Carrie Stevens Walter, — brave, bright, true- 
hearted, genius-gifted Carrie Stevens Walter is 
no more. She has gone to join "The choir in- 
visible of those immortal dead who live again 
in minds made better by their presence; live 
in pulses stirred to generosity ; in deeds of 
daring rectitude; in scorn of miserable aims 
that end in self; in thoughts sublime that 
pierce the night like stars." 

Of that great immortality of pure and noble 
souls this gifted woman has become a part; 
and while her death removes from us the active 
and potential inspiration of her daily presence, 
it leaves us the influence of her life and the 
cherished record of her genius, which will re- 
main an unfailing portion of our intellectual 
treasury forever. 

Carrie Stevens Walter has been identified 



Memorial Tributes 145 

with our community from her girlhood. Forty 
years or more ago she came among us a 
maiden in her teens, already a teacher, and 
already somewhat known to fame. From that 
time to the present she has been one of us in 
all that makes for womanhood and in much 
that contributes to progress. Here she bore 
and reared her children, displaying in herself 
and exemplifying in them those graces and 
fruits of maternity which are the crowning 
glory of her sex. Here amid the labors and 
cares of a life not always blessed with sun- 
shine her genius sparkled forth continually in 
verse and prose which had nothing of bor- 
rowed or reflected luster, but which shone by 
virtue of its own inner light. There has always 
been something about the style and matter of 
her writings which seemed to bring one into 
immediate touch with the spirit of the writer 
and the theme; and while there was no mis- 
taking the exquisitely feminine suggestion 
which ran through all she wrote, yet no single 
line of her's was ever effeminate. In fact, when 
moved by deep conviction or strong emotion 



146 Rose- Ashes 

to the stress of tense expression there was 
wont to flash from her eyes and gleam along 
her lines a certain wild masterfulness which 
savored of the jungle; again, the broken sing- 
ing of the dove would tremble through her 
verses, revealing the restless pulsations of her 
sensitive heart, as in her poem entitled, 

"On the Border- Land of Tears" 

*'On the border-land of tears, 
Raised by hopes or crushed by fears, 
Joy and grief alternate swell, 
In the soul no peace can dwell. 

On the border-land of tears 
Stand the ghosts of vanished years; 
All we might be — and are not, — 
Greet us on that haunted spot. 

All life's quivering mile-posts loom, 
Sad as gravestones through the gloom; 
Trembling hopes are crushed by fears 
On the border-land of tears." 

The strain of exquisite sadness which runs 
through these verses was not at all the usual. 



Memorial Tributes 147 

or rather manifest, mood of Mrs. Walter's 
mind. On the contrary, her clear eye and 
open, mobile features were usually turned with 
a smile and hopeful, helpful word unto the 
world. She never lost her faith in human na- 
ture, nor wavered for an instant in her al- 
legiance to those great principles of truth, 
justice and liberty in which are reposed the 
hopes of the race. 

In everything which she did or wrote is to 
be recognized this noble elevation of her 
soul ; this striving to do and be and say some- 
thing which would make for the betterment 
of her kind. In the presence of such a char- 
acter how small, how pitiful are those vanities 
in the pursuit of which so many men and 
women are content to waste their lives. 

JOHN E. RICHARDS, 



148 Rose- Ashes 



Carrie Stevens Walter 

So the old circle narrows, day by day ! 

A brief good night to you, sweet friend and 
fair. 
My love with you, — and in your greetings say 

I follow soon, to those who wait me there. 

— Ina Coolbrith. 



Memorial Tributes 149 



"Rose Ashes'* 

"Rose Ashes?" Nay! but roses freshly blown, 
Are hers, — sweet as with fragrant airs that 
stir 
In dew-wet dawns; and songs, to earth un- 
known, 
She hears dear voices sing to welcome her. 

— Ina Coolbrith, 



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